


Surrender

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of the Spanish Civil War, Romano makes his way to Spain's door to make amends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_March, 1937_

Romano was tired. And hungry. And not a little bit scared, though none of these things were particularly unexpected of a normally lazy and indulgent man who finds himself smack in the middle of some godforsaken field outside of Madrid on the verge of spring with a bunch of frightening men and their even more frightening guns.  He tried to keep warm by comforting himself with thinking up creative ways of cursing that asshole Mussolini and this joke of a “Corps of Volunteer Troops,” while also trying to maintain a careful distance from the rest of members of the expeditionary force that Il Duce had sent into Spain to aid Franco’s Nationalists in their godforsaken Civil War.

On any other day, Romano would have been inclined to tell Italy’s dear leader to go fuck himself, but when he saw this opportunity to actually get into Spain, he swallowed down every last bit of pride he had (quite a lot) and forced its replacement with what courage he possessed (a far lesser amount). This was important. There were things that had to be said, had to be done, before the whole world went to complete shit as Romano feared it would.

And so Romano was grudgingly tolerating sitting on the ground, wearing a dirty uniform like some kind of commoner, desperately trying to summon the will he possessed to take the next step: temporary desertion. In order to get where he wanted to be, Romano knew that he would have to escape unnoticed from camp, make his way through a beleaguered Madrid…and then the hardest task of all, getting Spain to answer to the door when he came knocking.

 _“Screw that!”_  Romano scolded himself, figuring false bravado was better than none at all, “ _I didn’t put up with this army bullshit to quit here_.”

Fortunately for Romano, while he may not have been skilled in other military arts, he was quite adept at sneaking around and running away. Crossing himself for safety and luck, he made his way towards the latrines, as nonchalantly as possible, before ducking the only mildly attentive gaze of the guard and beginning his slow, methodical trek towards Madrid in the darkness. To keep from panicking over legitimate fears of being shot either as a deserter by his own people or as an enemy by Spain’s Republican forces, Romano forced his mind to recall the events of the last time he came to Spain like this, unexpected in the night.

He struggled to recall how many decades it had been as he crouched low to avoid the sweeping search lights, at least 60 years, maybe 70. It happened in the heady, chaotic days following the aftermath of the unification of Italy, when the fighting had finally finished, and Romano had been intoxicated with power and the grand feeling of finally, finally, being a nation unoccupied by another. He’d believed himself to be untouchable, ready to prove his prowess to anyone, and by anyone, his intentions ran solely to Spain. Romano went charging unannounced into Spain, high on his own sense of self-importance, storming into the house he had once pretended to clean as if he owned it. He found Spain in the wine cellar, took great pleasure in the way Spain’s green eyes went impossibly wide in shock and the true happy smile that spread across his face.

He remembered that he’d arrogantly demanded some of Spain’s best wine to celebrate, boasting, “Because I’m my own goddamned man now!”

Spain, of course, obliged him as he always did, prattling on about how happy he was for Romano and Veneziano, and how glad he was that Romano had come all this way to share the news with him.

“That’s not what I came here for,” Romano had interrupted before sauntering across the room and peering up into Spain’s eyes, which were narrowing in understanding far more quickly than they usually did when Romano threw a curve ball at him. “ _It figures that Spain would only use his brain cells in matters like these”_ , Romano inwardly taunted the man he was now pressing himself against.

“What did you here for then?” Spain murmured.

“Fuck the verbal foreplay,” Romano spat in return before climbing Spain like a tree, kissing him wildly, with all the fervor of a deeply insecure man facing an unrequited love that he couldn’t even bring himself to admit to in the first place.

At first Spain responded with a passion to match Romano’s, moaning and whispering nonsense like “so long, so long,” and “yes, finally,” which served to both confuse and further arouse Romano. But after several minutes of this heated encounter up against the wall, much to Romano’s dismay, Spain started to slow down, to be more gentle, his hands making long, caressing strokes down Romano’s back and thighs, kisses that lingered, like a lover’s might.

This was not what Romano wanted. That night, he wanted to prove to Spain that he was strong, to be taken seriously, no longer the brat in the girl’s clothes pushing a mop. He was Italy, now.

He bit down on Spain’s lip making him gasp, forcing his attention.

While he may not have been able to remember the year, or the wine they drank, or what he was wearing, Romano remembered the next part with perfect clarity. As he stood outside of the building where Spain was being kept, pausing to catch his breath and slow his heartbeat, he played back the painful memory.

He’d looked Spain directly in the eyes, one hand pulling roughly at his hair, ordering him, “Call me Italia.”

Spain had smiled softly, fondly, stroking his fingers down Romano’s face, choosing what Romano believed at the time to be the worst possible answer, “Ah, but to me you will always be my cute little Romano!”

Humiliated and enraged by what Romano believed to be a total lack of respect for his nation, his masculinity, Romano promptly shoved Spain away, head-butting him violently. He turned and fled up the stairs, ashamed and still half-hard, cursing, “Fuck you, you arrogant bastard! I’m not your goddamned anything anymore!”

Spain had tried to chase after him, shouting apologies and pleading with him to come back, but Romano always was good at running away.

He’d let his hurt feelings stew for years and years, tossing any letter from Spain unopened into a box in his closet, convinced that the asshole clearly would never see him as anything other than a weak subordinate to be coddled.  It was only when, decades later, Veneziano having decided to either snoop or spring clean, discovered the letters and being a disrespectful little shit with no sense of privacy, read them all. Veneziano immediately went crying to Romano, pleading Spain’s case, explaining what had happened, how Big Brother had so clearly misunderstood what Spain was trying to say. That Spain missed him. Cared for him. Maybe even loved him. 

It took several more years for this argument to start to seep through the cracks in the walls around Romano’s heart. Unfortunately, as is frequently the way of the world, by the time Romano felt brave enough to try again, to go and be as contrite as he was capable of being, to explain himself to Spain, Europe had fallen into chaos and Spain was being torn apart by a bloody Civil War.


	2. Chapter 2

Romano had been pacing up and down the hallway that held Spain’s apartment for five minutes, trying to work up the nerve to knock. If someone had treated him the way Romano had treated Spain and then showed up again unannounced, there would have been a goddamned mafia hit on the bastard the next day. He would have to trust in Spain’s far more generous nature. Offering a prayer to St. Valentine, he raised his shaking fist and rapped once, twice, on the door.

No response, though he could hear shuffling movement and wheezing from inside. He tried again, to no avail.

Frustrated, he banged his fist more loudly, hissing, “Goddamn it, Spain, let me in you bastard!”

Abruptly, the door flew open, giving Romano his first sight of Spain in over sixty years. While the war was clearly taking its toll, evident in the slight gauntness of the cheeks, his general pallor and weariness, for Romano, Spain was still gorgeous enough to be infuriating.

Said infuriating beauty was standing in the entry way, gaping, eyes blinking almost comically, before raising a palm to his forehead.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Romano asked with exasperation.

“Checking for a fever, to make sure I am not hallucinating, of course,” Spain answered weakly, as if that made all the sense in the world.

Tired of standing exposed in the hallway, Romano reached out and pinched Spain on the arm, causing him to yelp in surprise as he pushed his way into the apartment, grumbling “There, idiot. Are you convinced I am real now? Jesus.”

Rubbing his arm, Spain closed the door, following Romano closely as if afraid he would disappear if more than two feet of space were between them. Romano took a look around the threadbare apartment, bars on the windows, unmade narrow bed, barely adequate furniture, sentries keeping watch on the street.

He sighed, casting a cynical glance at Spain, “The world’s gone to the dogs. Look at this hellhole those bastards have you in.”

Spain, apparently having finished his up close appraisal of Romano, convinced of his realness, shrugged, “They don’t know what side I am on, so they lock me away. Both sides fear the possibility of a rallying symbol.” His eyes went cold and calculating as he pointed at Romano’s dirty uniform, “But what about you? You siding with Mussolini and Franco, now, Romano?”

Romano exploded, desperate to reassure Spain that he would never do that, “Fuck no! Like I give a shit about that asshole!”

Spain looked somewhat reassured, but pressed, “Why are you wearing that uniform?”

Romano blushed and looked at his feet, “It was the only way I could get into Spain.” When Spain remained silent, Romano blustered on, “Now get me something to drink, you ungracious excuse for a host. I didn’t almost get shot at twice to come here and get treated like crap!” He flopped down in one of the two chairs in the place, refusing to look at Spain.

Spain came to stand in front of him, asking gently, as if afraid of startling a wild horse, “Why are you here, Romano?”

Heart beating too rapidly and fear quickly climbing up his throat, Romano couldn’t help the sarcastic reply that came tumbling out of his mouth, “Because Spain in the spring is so delightful, I just couldn’t help myself, war be damned. Why do you think I’m here, bastard?”

Spain tilted his chin up and Romano was saddened to feel the shaking in his fingers, suddenly hating this war more than he had even when forced to sit on the cold, wet, ground and eat out of a can. Feeling that he owed it to Spain, he forced his eyes to meet Spain’s puzzled, happy and hopeful, but wary gaze.

“I really don’t know, Romano.”

He couldn’t stand that look, knowing that he had put that wariness there, annoyed that he was made to face his own faults. He sighed, pushing out of the chair, breaking Spain’s hold on him, turning away. Spain started to follow him only to be halted by a bout of coughing that grated on Romano’s heart.  

 _“Idiot should be in bed, can’t even take care of himself_ ,” he thought, trying to mask his fear and worry as he spun around to face Spain again, taking his hands and pulling him delicately towards the bed.

Romano pressed him down on to the bed, gently, wary of pushing the weak and wary Spain too far. Spain went willing, letting his head fall on the pillow, hair splaying out around his face, but sighed as he looked up at Romano, bitterness in his eyes, a rebuke in his voice, “So, come to finish what you started the last time I saw you, Romano?”

Shocked and shamed by Spain’s question, Romano shook his head, he knew that he couldn’t just waltz in here without the memories of their last meeting casting a shadow. He was going to have to come clean about his intentions.

He struggled, squirmed, looked away, looked at Spain, anything to try and get the words to come tumbling out, knowing how important it was at this moment to say, “No, no, Spain, I love you. Always have done, I was just too fucking stupid to know it before.”

He couldn’t do it. The words sat trapped somewhere between fear and pride, the desperateness of the situation, the crumbling walls and Spain’s fragility making his own feelings seem so insignificant. But Spain was still looking at him expectantly, the little curious, hopeful, light in his eyes dimming with each second that Romano prevaricated.

Well, if words wouldn’t come, Romano thought, testing his confidence, actions would have to do. Slowly carefully, he lay down on top of Spain, pressing their bodies together, tangling their feet, hips aligned, one heart beat on another. He laced one hand in Spain’s and let the other drift to the dark hair fanned out on the pillow, caressing the tangled mess. For a moment he let himself look directly into Spain’s confused but happier eyes, hiding nothing, not his worry, nor his fear, nor his love. When his bravery broke and he couldn’t do it any longer, he buried his face in the hollow between Spain’s neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply. Not even a Civil War could rob the man of the scent of sunshine baked earth.

Romano was horrified to find that without permission tears had started to gather in his eyes, scattering on the bastard’s shoulder. He prayed that Spain wouldn’t notice, but no, of course it wasn’t going to be so. Spain always did have a sixth sense for Romano’s pain.

Suddenly, he was the one on his back, Spain looming over him, looking concerned and also strangely contented. The taller man settled, letting his weight rest comfortably on Romano, propped on one elbow as he used his long fingers to wipe away the wetness under Romano’s eyes.

Infuriatingly, Spain smiled knowingly at him, “I understand, Romano.”

Romano huffed and looked away, “Understand what, asshole?”

Spain pressed a kiss to his temple, his cheek, and then fleetingly to his lips, before exclaiming, “I love you, too!”

Turning red and spluttering, he pulled Spain down fully so he wouldn’t have to look at the man while he said such fucking embarrassing things. Though their positions were now reversed, Romano returned to hiding his flaming face in Spain’s shoulder.

Spain was laughing a little, humming some nonsense at him and it occurred to Romano that he was letting Spain do all the work for him. And while that would normally be his goal, Romano didn’t trudge through mud and rain with scary men and their even scarier guns to just lay here and let Spain make it all better for them both.

Slowly, he removed his face from its warm and comforting hiding place, rubbing his cheek against Spain’s hair, freeing one of his hands from Spain’s grasp to trace the stubbled lines of his jaw, letting his fingers trail over Spain’s parted lips, softly, softly. Spain’s breath came in surprised little gasps as Romano caressed the shell of his ear, fingers walking a slow path from neck to the planes of his shoulder blades and back again, finding their ultimate resting place in Spain’s hair.

“Yes,” he breathed into Spain’s ear, imbuing the word with all the affection in his hidden heart.

Spain shuddered and then kissed him fiercely, deep and wet, leaving them both gasping for air before Spain flopped to Romano’s side, seemingly exhausted.

Romano rolled on his side, looking at the man with thinly veiled concern.

Spain chuckled a little, also turning on his side to face Romano, “You have terrible timing.”

Romano blushed and blustered, “I’m fucking Italian, we’re always late.”

Shifting closer, Spain threw an arm over Romano’s hips, smirking, “Yes, I doubt even Il Duce could make love run on time.”

 _“Presumptuous asshole!”_ Huffily, Romano shoved his face into the pillow, refusing to acknowledge that statement.

Stroking his side, Spain asked, “Can you stay? I can hide you here.”

Romano shook his head into the pillow, snorting, “They won’t even let you have an unbarred window, somehow I don’t think those bastards are going to let you keep a rogue Italian. Besides, I need to get to Italy. Keep that moron Veneziano from doing anything foolish.”

Spain just laughed again before sliding against him, whispering into his ear, and Romano swore he could hear that damned sunshine smile in his voice, “That’s too bad. I would have liked to have kept you to myself for awhile. But I am so glad you are here. It makes me happy.”

Peeking out from under the fringe of his hair, Romano grumbled, “Me too, bastard.”

Spain sighed happily, kissing what little of Romano’s face wasn’t hidden in the pillow, “Mmm, I want to make love to you very badly.”

Romano’s heart skipped, skin suddenly shivering, giving away his enthusiasm for this one, rare, good idea of Spain’s. He turned over slightly, permitting the other man access to his lips, Spain quickly taking advantage of Romano’s compliance.

For long moments they kissed, slowly and sweetly, the way Romano had always wanted but been too scared to try. They were, without doubt, lover’s kisses and Romano committed the feeling of Spain’s love-struck grin pressed against his own to memory, knowing this was all he would have to comfort him in the dark days that surely were ahead.

He could feel the little tremors of exhaustion in Spain’s arms, the way he seemed to be trying to call on all his reserves of energy. Romano pulled away from the kiss, nudging Spain to lie back down.

Spain sighed as Romano traced over the deep circles under his eyes, openly worried, “Sorry, Romano, I want to, very much so, but Boss doesn’t think he can right now.”

Romano smacked him lightly on the chest, frowning, “Don’t call yourself Boss when we’re in bed, idiot!”

Spain laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners even as he drifted closer to sleep, “Sorry!”

Romano settled next to him, keeping his hand on Spain’s chest, counting his heartbeats, “Yeah, yeah, just remember that next time.”

Spain covered the hand on his chest with his own, “Ah, so there will be a next time?”

“Of course, moron,” Romano’s answer was less sharp than he had intended as he, too, was growing sleepy, the feel of Spain’s heart beat under his hand lulling him to sleep.

“The world won’t always be in the shit. I’ll come back when the fuckers making this mess are gone.”

Spain hmmed, speech starting to slur, “We’ll go to the beach.”

Romano snuggled closer, trying to hold onto this moment of hope, “Yeah, we’ll do that.”

“When it’s over…” Spain’s breathing evened out, rasping slightly in his chest.

Closing his eyes, on the verge of dreams, Romano pressed a kiss to Spain’s shoulder, echoing Spain’s prayer, “When it’s over.”


End file.
